


The sum of our parts

by artfulinanities



Series: Just Some Tumblr Things... [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Past Drug Use, Sherlock's scars, Tender things, Top John Watson, brief mention of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 23:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6879082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artfulinanities/pseuds/artfulinanities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few hours ago, this had been nothing but a dream, a figment of Sherlock’s imaginings. Then came a chase, a close brush with death, an overzealous paramedic, and crushing silence. John had covered Sherlock, quietly chastising the young EMT before guiding them to a cab, the ride silent, the tension palpable. </p>
<p>Now, Sherlock stands in his room, the door ajar where John had crept in, his face crumpled into innumerable lines, each one indecipherable, the emotion in his eyes unnamed. He had reached out and gripped the lapels of Sherlock’s suit jacket, and Sherlock had let him discover the ruin of his body at his own pace; is still letting him map every step of his time spent Away with careful hands and sharp inhales and trembling touches that leave him guilty, ashamed, fearful, and angry. He doesn’t want John’s pity, or guilt, or misguided attempts at empathy. No. That would hurt more than the wounds themselves, knowing that John somehow saw him as less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sum of our parts

**Author's Note:**

> Can't sleep! Here are some soft things...but maybe with angst? I dunno. I'm a tired human being...

John runs his hands over Sherlock’s back, fingertips tracing every jagged line, every raised edge and smooth patch, the tan of his skin a stark contrast to the miles of alabaster riddled with silvers and pinks and reds splayed out beneath him. His touch is gentle, reverent, his breathing deep and even. Sherlock can feel the warmth from his palms seeping into his skin, oozing into the very core of his being and easing the tightness in his chest. Strong fingers peel the purple silk from Sherlock’s arms, discarding the garment and running calloused palms over freckled biceps and firm shoulders. Sherlock shivers under the touch, swaying on his feet. The hands drift down his sides to his hips, steadying him, keeping him grounded.

A few hours ago, this had been nothing but a dream, a figment of Sherlock’s imaginings. Then came a chase, a close brush with death, an overzealous paramedic, and crushing silence. John had covered Sherlock, quietly chastising the young EMT before guiding them to a cab, the ride silent, the tension palpable. 

Now, Sherlock stands in his room, the door ajar where John had crept in, his face crumpled into innumerable lines, each one indecipherable, the emotion in his eyes unnamed. He had reached out and gripped the lapels of Sherlock’s suit jacket, and Sherlock had let him discover the ruin of his body at his own pace; is still letting him map every step of his time spent Away with careful hands and sharp inhales and trembling touches that leave him guilty, ashamed, fearful, and angry. He doesn’t want John’s pity, or guilt, or misguided attempts at empathy. No. That would hurt more than the wounds themselves, knowing that John somehow saw him as less.

John slides his hands to Sherlock’s hips, asking with subtle tugs and shuffling feet for him to turn around. Sherlock lets his eyes fall shut, turning in the circle of John’s arms, unable to bring himself to look at John’s face. One glance and nothing will be the same; everything will be written there for Sherlock to see, every thought, every emotion etched into John’s skin. He starts when one small, sure hand cups his face, tilting his chin down so that when he opens his eyes, John’s face is _right there_  and he stops breathing. Dark eyes watch him carefully, bright with tears but full of something heavy and hopeful and raw. Sherlock holds himself perfectly still as John’s hand slips around to the back of his neck, guiding him down to press their foreheads together. The air between them smells of London, of sweat and fear, of copper and plastic, of wool and silk, of cigarettes and shampoo, of  _home._

Sherlock’s hands hover between them, fingers itching with the need to touch, to hold, to caress, and somehow John knows. He steps forward, tilting his chin so that his lips rest against Sherlock’s and his chest settles under Sherlock’s splayed palms. The kiss is light, a brush of skin, a question, a promise, and Sherlock can’t swallow the sob that works it’s way out of his throat before he presses forward, kissing John’s mouth with a desperation that surprises him. It’s everything unspoken: every letter he never sent, every phone call he never made, every time he stood on John’s doorstep when Moriarty’s web brought him back to London and he had to walk away. It’s an apology and a plea and a love letter all in one and Sherlock prays to a deity he doesn’t believe in that the message is heard. John pulls him closer, fingers tangling in Sherlock’s curls, sliding over his shoulder and down his arm, twining their fingers together and tugging Sherlock back towards the bed. Sherlock follows willingly, breath hitching when John spins them about and lowers Sherlock to the mattress, crawling over him to press another gentle kiss to his mouth. 

There’s something unbelievably tender in every brush of John’s fingers against his skin, every slide of his mouth against Sherlock’s own, that has Sherlock baffled. He had imagined John to be fierce, demanding, cocky. This gentle version of John that kisses him as though he might break and touches him as if he were made of spun glass is disarming, the care he shows in every movement leaving Sherlock unable to breathe around the lump of _something_  in his throat. He pulls John closer, skin prickling, eyes stinging. John follows, kissing along his jaw and down his neck, lips pausing on every mark on Sherlock’s body - freckles, moles, scars, stretch marks - every bit of him lavished with attention. He pauses as the tender crook of Sherlock’s elbow, thumb running over the constellation of tiny white marks gathered there. Ashamed, Sherlock makes to pull away, but John only lowers his head, kissing the soft skin gently before moving on, pressing his lips to the scars on Sherlock’s hands from cases, experiments, torture, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock stares back, throat tight, heart clenching just behind his sternum. John lets Sherlock’s hands fall to the mattress, settling his fingers at Sherlock’s waistband, his eyes questioning, and it takes every ounce of courage Sherlock possesses to nod - because, if they do this, he can’t go back, he just _can’t_  - his lips shaping his silent consent.

_Yes. I trust you._

John unfastens the hook, sliding pants and trousers down over long legs and off to the floor, shoes and socks at the bottom of the pile. His eyes sweep over Sherlock’s body, hungry and sad and hopeful and delighted all at once and Sherlock fights the urge to cover himself. John’s eyes flick up to his own and he smiles softly, beckoning for Sherlock to sit up, guiding Sherlock’s hands to the hem of his jumper. Inhaling sharply, Sherlock unwraps John slowly, peeling off his jumper and shirt and vest, hands roving over the exposed skin, feeling the rugged muscle, the smooth scars, the small swell at his belly, the wiry hair under his fingers, every change in topography carefully filed away in his Mind Palace. He reads John’s skin like Braille, the story of his life written in every line, every mark on his body. He lingers on the mangled scar at John’s shoulder, tracing the erratic outline with his lips and tongue, John shivering beneath him. Sherlock can feel John’s trust in the lax slope of his muscles and the even cadence of his breathing, can hear the unspoken permission in every gesture.

_I trust you, too._

John stands, toeing off his shoes and socks, guiding Sherlock’s hands to his flies. Sherlock strips away the final layers between them, pulling John back down onto the bed, their hands gliding over new skin and old wounds, curious and careful and claiming. They kiss, deep and wanting, soft and comforting, bodies moving, mouths tasting, hands touching, and somewhere between the thrill of discovery and the relief of being allowed to be together this way lies a burn of arousal, growing hotter and brighter, _need_  and _want_  coursing through their veins. John sits up and pulls Sherlock into his lap, reaching out to rummage in the night table and coming back with a tube of lubricant, and Sherlock nods, leaning forward to brace himself against the headboard, John’s mouth working his chest, John’s fingers teasing along his cleft. A clever tongue circles his nipple as the first finger pushes in and Sherlock’s prick twitches between them, his breath hitching. John sucks on the pebbled nub as he opens Sherlock slowly, switching sides and blowing on the skin, hands steady. Sherlock bears down on every pump of John’s fingers, face pressed to the downy hair at John’s temple, thighs quivering, his entire body alight. He can feel his heartbeat in his fingers, feel the pulses of pleasure deep in his belly, the subtle burn of the stretch in his arse. It’s too much, not enough, too fast, too slow; he need _more_ , needs _John_. He groans when John pulls his fingers out, hips hitching back in search of the delicious stretch. A blunt, slick shape presses against his entrance and Sherlock pulls his head back to look down at John, eyes bright. 

“Please,” he murmurs, cupping John’s face. _Please fuck me. Please be there when I wake up in the morning. Please tell me this is real. Please let me know that I can have this for real._

_“_ Always,” John whispers fiercely, hands settling at Sherlock’s hips. _I will always be here. You will always have me._

Sherlock reaches behind him, steadying John’s cock as he sinks down, feeling his body stretch to accommodate the intrusion, feeling so full, feeling his arse come flush with John’s lap. It’s different than his last time, or the time before that. It feels like his first time all over again: his body tight and hot, pulse pounding in his veins, heart aching with something he’s spent far too long ignoring.

John gives his hips a squeeze, pressing a lingering kiss to the scar on his chest and something in Sherlock cracks. He lets out a strangled noise, rising up and sinking back down, angling his hips _just so_  as he sinks down so that he sees stars. He holds tight to the headboard, sinking down onto John’s lap again and again, lost in the sensation of John’s hands on his slick skin, of John inside of his, of John all around him, of John murmuring against his skin - “beautiful,’ “I love you,” “you’re perfect,” “I love you so fucking much,” - of John’s hand on his cock, of  _John_ , and he tips over the edge, muscles fluttering, a low moan falling from his lips as he paints their chests with his release. John follows after him, burying his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck as his hips stutter through his orgasm. 

They pull apart, falling onto the sheets in a tangle of sweaty limbs and sticky skin, eyes fixed on each other. John rolls to the side, grabbing a pair of pants and cleaning the mess between them, kissing Sherlock’s knee as he wipes between his thighs. Sherlock snags the pants and casts them aside, tugging John down into an embrace, nuzzling against his chest. 

He feels broken and remade, all of the jagged pieces that had been tearing him apart from the inside settled into something fragile and new and bright. John runs idle hands over his back, pressing kisses to his curls. It feels right and perfect and Sherlock lets himself relax, lets himself _be_ , content in the moment.

“Always,” John repeats, nose buried in Sherlock’s curls.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s skin. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Drop by and say hello on [my Tumblr](http://artfulinanities.tumblr.com/)


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